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nomazee · 1 month

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close to your heart and that bed of yours too

you've been having the same weird dream about dan heng, over and over, and it just so happens that he's had the same dream, too.

dan heng x gn reader — 2.4k — super suggestive content but definitely nothing serious or graphic, some guilt abt attraction, dreams, romantic fantasies but not weird ones, kissing and closeness and physical touch, literal sleeping together

notes: forgive me and my debaucherous writing... this is nowhere near smut but it's definitely suggestive they get touchy and feely but it's very emotions-focused...oh my god what did i write this is so

—°+..｡*ﾟ｡*ﾟ+.*.｡.—

It’s probably not possible to get cabin fever on a constantly-running space train, but that’s the only reasonable explanation for the weird, weird recurring dream you’ve been having about Dan Heng. It’s not— not that weird, not weird enough that you feel like a complete deviant, but enough for you to realize that it’s a complete reflection of your innermost thoughts and desires, and that scares you more than anything.

The dream— it goes like this:

You wake up—not in real life, but in the dream world, which freaked you out the first time because you didn't realize you were dreaming at all so you thought everything was entirely real—and it’s usually because of the noise of your door sliding open. The instinct to look and see who it is doesn’t hit you. You lay there, gaze fixed distantly on the steel surface of your ceiling until the feeling of your bedsheets moving next to you pushes you to full awareness.

You still don’t move your gaze until you feel a body—warm, breathing, real real real?—lift up your blankets and slide underneath them, pressing next to you, curling into your side as if seeking out your life source. Your breath catches in your throat every single time as you turn to see that it’s Dan Heng, still dressed in his work clothes because he doesn’t understand the concept of pajamas, and his arm reaches around you and curls around your shoulder and he rests his head on your collarbone, gently, and you can feel his breath fan against the fabric of your shirt and your skin.

Dan Heng says your name with reverence, with something like desire, and it makes your stomach clench and he turns his body into you more. He tucks his leg between yours—not moving, just sitting there, a reminder of him, his warmth—and he’s so, so warm, it amazes you that he’s like a furnace, and that he’s so unbothered by laying so close to you under all of your blankets.

And he says your name again, each and every time, and it spurs something in you and you bring your arms around him each and every time, and pull him close, and feel the way he shudders, like a cold breeze wracking his body, like he’s never been this close to anyone before, and it dawns on you that he probably hasn’t—and that thought alone spirals into the realization that Dan Heng would never do this—

And then you wake up. Each time.

The first time it happened, you didn't realize it was a dream, and you were so overwhelmed with thought after thought and feeling after feeling and sensation after sensation. When you finally woke up, it felt like you were grieving a loss. You felt too cold, and too empty, and curled into yourself and laid in your bed for an hour taking in shaky breaths until you finally got over yourself.

You couldn't face Dan Heng for that entire day. Which was fine, because he spent his whole day in his room shuffling through the archives, so he was easy to dodge. But then you dreamt of him again. And again, and again, and then it just became a part of your nighttime routine to dream of your own friend so intimately and then wake up and pretend like nothing matters and nothing changed. Pretend like you didn't feel anything, and pretend like these dreams didn't flood you with guilt about your sick sick feelings and your sick sick fantasies.

You tried to rationalize it, make yourself feel less awful. The dreams never went past him laying beside you, for the most part, and you preferred it that way. If they got any more intimate than they already were, you would’ve thrown yourself off the Express the next morning.

Regardless, the Dan Heng in your dream and the Dan Heng that you saw every morning were different people, because the Dan Heng you saw every morning would never get so close to you. Would never lay in your bed and breathe on your neck like that.

Never. That distinction is the only thing that convinces you to let yourself dream. You indulge, and it’s sickening, but you let your dreams happen over and over, and each time you hold Dan Heng tighter and tighter and tighter, and let him breathe against your neck, and feel the rush of his blood circulating through his body.

One night, in one iteration of this dream, Dan Heng kisses you. It feels so real that it makes you nauseous. His lips were warm and damp and clumsy against the corner of your mouth, and he let out anxious breaths until you tangled your hands in his hair and tugged him closer and kissed him back.

You woke up sick, running to your bathroom to puke in the sink as your hands shook in guilt. Somehow, you could still talk to Dan Heng normally that day, stomach twisting only the slightest bit whenever your gaze lingered on him for too long.

Welt might have noticed how weird you were acting. There was a nagging furrow in his brow and he caught your gaze more than once and each time, you felt waves of humiliation crash into you, flooding you in heat and guilt and vertigo. He looked like he wanted to pry in that odd, awkward, old-man-paternal way of his, but you just shook your head and looked away and begged, hoped, wished upon a star that you would have a normal dream tonight.

The night— it goes like this:

You lay in your bed, staring at your ceiling, leftover remnants of guilt swimming in your lungs and nightly congestion forcing you to take shallow breaths through your mouth. Thoughts run through your mind and slam into your skull at rapid speed. Has Dan Heng noticed how weird you’ve been acting? He hasn’t treated you any differently, but maybe it’s out of pity. Maybe you haven’t been paying enough attention, because you’re so busy replaying that dream over and over and over, obsessive, wondering if you should just let go of the rope you’re suspended on and slam into the water and drown in your wants and your needs.

So you close your eyes, and you let yourself drift off and wake back up in your dream. You’re on your side now, instead of on your back, and the door is on the far wall behind you. You still hear it slide open, as it always does in this dream, and the footsteps get closer until you hear the shuffling of someone kneeling behind you. And then there’s nothing.

Your blankets don’t get lifted up. There’s no warm body tucking itself next to you. But there’s— a voice, Dan Heng’s voice, and your heart sinks into your stomach as you hear the pitch of his voice, the vibrations of sound.

“Are you awake?”

Your brow furrows, and you clench and unclench your fists twice before parting your dry, trembling lips. He’s never spoken in a dream before, not like this. He’s only ever said your name. Your fingers twitch with the instinct to pinch yourself.

“Yes,” you respond, hoping that the confusion isn’t clear in the timbre of your voice. “What’s— is something wrong?”

“No,” he says immediately. Clothes rustle as he adjusts himself. You’re scared to turn around and face him. You don’t know what you’d see. “You…” and he pauses, thinking of his words. Dan Heng would rather take a full minute to think about what to say, what words to pick, instead of stumbling over syllables, and it’s so unlike your own habits and as you think of this, your fingers twitch again. This time with the desire to hold his hand, because that’s what you’re supposed to do in this dream, but everything feels too real now and you don’t know where you are.

Finally, he finds his words. You’re patient with him. “I can’t sleep alone,” he whispers, as if embarrassed to admit it, “not tonight. I trust you.”

God. He can’t say that. He shouldn’t say that, because your head is spinning and you’re going to throw up. Your hand finds the strength to pick itself up and pinch the skin of your forearm. You’re not dreaming.

“Yeah,” you cough out, sniffling afterwards to cover up your budding anxiety as you finally sit up and turn to face him. “Yeah, you can, um. Sleep here.”

When he finally enters your field of vision, he looks the same as he always does—both in your dreams and in real life. It makes you sick. The guilt that you feel now comes more from the fact that he’s still in his typical outfit instead of pajamas.

“Dan Heng,” you start as you shuffle back on your bed to make space for him. He follows your motion, kneeling on the edge of your mattress before adjusting the sheets around you to tuck himself underneath and lay down. “We need to get you pajamas. I don’t know how you sleep like that.”

“I don’t sleep,” he admits, “not usually. I don’t need a lot of sleep.”

“You do. You might not think so, but you probably do. I wish I had a spare set of pajamas, but— they’re all, um, in the wash right now.”

“It’s okay. Your blankets are nice.”

Words tingle against your gums, syllables of confessions lighting up in your mouth. You want to tell him that a dream-version of him has slept under a copy of these blankets multiple times before, that you’ve dreamed for weeks about him curled into you and sleeping, and saying your name, and kissing the corner of your mouth. Right now, you’re just laid side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder, but you can feel how warm he is and his hand is so close to yours and you just want to hold it. You want him to say your name and look at you and hold your hand.

“Good,” you say instead of everything else that you could say, because you have a sense of self control at times.

Then Dan Heng says your name, rolling onto his side to face you, hands tucked underneath the side of his face in a stupidly endearing sleeping position. You follow suit, because your self control isn’t that strong. He doesn’t say anything else. Just your name, once. With reverence and desire. Maybe you’re dreaming it, but you pinch your knuckles again and yet you’re still in the same room with the same man in front of you.

One of your arms is bent between you two, hand resting on the pillow that separates you two. Dan Heng’s own hand—warm, and breathing, and real— comes up to rest on top of yours, and you cannot believe any of this is happening. You want to pinch yourself again but his hand is curling around yours and he’s inching forward and you hope that your deer-in-headlights expression doesn’t scare him off.

“Dan Heng,” you whisper, voice cracking with an embarrassing desperation. It’s a warning for him, before he does whatever he’s about to do. But he says your name, again, and his face is so close to yours that you can feel every breath fan against your face, and your entire body is warmed and your hand flips over to hold his, fingers slipping between his and tightening around it.

“Have you had these odd dreams these last few nights,” he asks, a leading tone in his voice, “because I have. About you,” and he’s too honest, and you have to swallow your saliva before it turns into sweat and blood, and you feel his hand squeeze back around yours. His is shaking, and you find some kind of comfort in knowing that you’re not the only one.

“Yeah,” you answer, because you can’t get more than one syllable out at a time tonight. Could anyone blame you? Would Dan Heng blame you for that, afterwards, even though his face is so close and his hand is so warm and it’s tight around you, and he’s shuffling around again, constantly fidgeting, and he takes his other arm and slides it around you, hand between your shoulder blades. He hooks a leg between yours, tugging you closer and closer and closer. You’re blinking at him, heart caught in your throat and eyes landing on his lips so that maybe he’ll finally take the hint.

He does. He does, and as cliche as it is, it’s better than your dream. He kisses you, desperate, and right before your eyes flutter shut you catch the contemplative furrow in his brow. His mouth is—warm, damp, but you feel the crack in the skin in the center of his bottom lip. It scrapes against you and you can’t help the shaky sigh you release at the feeling, and the hand on your back curls into the fabric of your sleep shirt.

Your eyes are closed, tight, scared that if you open them, you’ll just wake up back in your room, alone and cold again with your empty steel ceiling. Dan Heng’s mouth is moving against yours with a practiced proficiency that you’re almost jealous of. You let your tongue trace the edges of his teeth, carnal in your desires, before you bite down on his lip hard enough to leave a temporary dent. He shudders, hand trembling against yours and lips pulling back from yours as he tucks his head into your neck and lets out shaky breaths lines with addictive sounds. You’re going crazy. He’s driving you crazy.

The hard, carved metal parts of his clothes dig into you. Your hand goes around him to rest on the back of his head, threading through his hair as his breathing slows against you. “We can go shopping somewhere tomorrow,” you tell him, already thinking of how you’d convince Pom-Pom to land at some shopping district of some planet. “You need pajamas.”

“There’s no need for me to have that,” he says, stubborn and set in his ways, even with something as mundane as sleep clothes. “My normal clothes are fine.”

“Not if you’ll be sleeping in my bed.”

And that makes him succumb to your whims, much too easy for your own good, and you laugh when he lets out a weary sigh at your reciprocal stubbornness. Your fingers keep combing through his hair, soft and meaningful, until he falls asleep. You think you'll get him a blue plaid pajama set. He'd look nice in it.

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bidisastersanji · 6 months

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Thanks to everyone who screamed in the tags and asked for a part two of the Roronoa “I learned French just to overhear if my crush likes men” Zoro” story. 🤡 Part one here. And a million thanks to @inoreuct for the help 🙏 You can also read it on AO3 here if you prefer. Edit: Part three here, part four here

---

"WHY ARE SWORDS WOMEN!???"

"Calm down, Roronoa. They’re not women, they’re just a feminine word."

Zoro digs the palm of his hands into his eyes, hunching over the big dinner table in this godforsaken mansion on this godforsaken island. How had it come to this? He was supposed to be training to become the world’s greatest swordsman … and here he was. Stuck learning inanimate objects’ stupid imaginary gender and whatever the hell kind of tense “ plus-que-parfait ” (more-than-perfect) is.

Scattered around him are French grammar, spelling and exercise books, loose papers and empty glasses of wine. Sadly, not his own. His stupid dad mentor had decided that he was banned from drinking from his private cellars until daily lessons had ended.

Dracule Mihawk. Hawkeye. Renowned monster powerhouse, the world’s greatest swordsman, a feared warlord…is sat in reading glasses, correcting his pronunciation and teaching him the most vexing language on the planet: French.

“Are you quite finished making a scene? I’ve stopped talking exclusively French to you for many months now. Be grateful.”

Zoro presses his lips together tightly to keep himself from saying something he’ll regret. It wouldn’t do him or his crew any good to lose this opportunity to learn from the best. After the salt-shaker incident, Mihawk, quickly followed by Perona-who only wishes misery upon him- only responded to him if he spoke his broken French to them and would only speak to him in that tongue in return. His already impossibly difficult swords lessons… challenges? Whatever one would call the hellish training regimens the warlord put him through became even more impossible now that he couldn’t even understand the instructions. After a few too many close calls and instances of French being shouted at him louder and louder (saying it louder won’t make him magically understand), Mihawk changed tactics and decided to teach him the academic way instead, in the evenings after supper. Suppers which definitely didn’t leave him longing for someone else’s cooking.

Supposedly surprised at his silence (with this man, there’s no way to really tell for sure what could be going through his mind), Mihawk lowers his glasses and takes a long look at him. “And how is your reading coming along?”

Seated across from him and eating her dessert, Perona gives a loud snort, choking a bit on her strawberry shortcake. Her ever-present floating ghosts laugh a little louder, covering her badly stifled laughter as she purses her lips.

Zoro glares daggers at her, neck and ears flushing intensely. “It’s going… fine .”

In reality, his reading isn’t going “fine”. The Manor’s entire west wing is filled to the brim with the most boring, coma-inducing, self-aggrandising books on philosophy, French cuisine, land management, architecture and theology, all written in chicken scratch, old timey French. Zoro had tried his hand at reading one that seemed perhaps less bad than the others, but on his tenth try at staying awake on reading the third page describing the gothic stone arches of a church- he gave up. It felt more painstaking to spend one more second looking at another page of that book than getting sliced open by Mihawk so many months ago.

In the pits of his désespoir, his guard was down, and his alarm bells didn’t ring when Perona innocently approached him and handed him a book that looked markedly different from the rest of Mihawk’s collection. At a second glance, he realized that he’d seen that book on Sanji’s hammock-side barrel before, recognizing the distinctive lettering of “Harlequin editions” on the spine.

“Here. I’m taking pity on you. Mihawk has a secret stash of these in his personal library. They’re easier to read and will get the job done. You need to meet a quota of one a week, right?”

Out of options, Zoro silently accepted the book and retreated to his quarters. If it was good enough for the cook (and Perona?), it would be good enough for him.

His suspicions should have risen from the moment he recognised it was a work of fiction- unlike every single book he’d come across here. But no , studious mindset activated and with a dictionary on hand for any word he might not know, it took him longer than he’d care to admit to realise this was a romance book. And not just any romance book- a ludicrously explicit book detailing many, many scandalous trysts between a dark, mysterious, broody vampire and his parade of beautiful, lithe and oh-so-flirtatious nobles of all genders. He had to stop and put the book down several times, too flustered from explicit descriptions of passionately taking people against cold stone walls, bending them over various pieces of antique furniture and even tying them to extravagant four poster beds. It was too much for the poor swordsman to handle.

It was mainly the thought of the pervy cook reading this… it stirred something low within him, his thoughts running wild at the natural implication that the scenarios held within the worn pages- the rough, possessive, teasing, kinky and playful sexual acts- were all things that Sanji had read. And enjoyed. Multiple times if his memory served him right. Sanji owned this book, which meant that this was something that… aroused him. Face like a furnace and heart beating wildly, Zoro tugged at his hair, unable to cope with this new information nor the inappropriate thoughts and images his mind was conjuring involving a certain sharp-tongued blonde, his powerful thighs and unfairly biteable neck. He could almost see his fiery blue eye boring adversarially into his own, a cheeky smirk that was just begging to be kissed off-

Zoro snapped the book shut.

Fuck .

After an uncomfortably sweaty night and a glacial shower, it was only at breakfast that further implications finally clicked for the rattled swordsman. The lewd book had come, as Perona had put it, from Mihawk’s secret stash .

One: the book was Mihawk’s. That dawning realisation alone froze Zoro mid-chew, and he decided then and there that he would never be able to look the older man in the eye ever again. At least not in the same way.

I know what you are

It wasn’t difficult to make the connection between the book’s owner, a pale, recluse, wine drinking man in a manor and the book’s main vampire. Two: this was from a stash . Meaning there would be many, many more of these books in the manor. Three, because of the nature of his mentor’s “official” library (unreadable), he will de facto have to keep reading bodice-rippers for well over a year and inevitably assimilate the raunchiest, most useless lexicon known to man, in what some people call the language of love. Wonderful. Despite himself, Zoro knew he’d already memorized at least three different ways to refer to male genitalia, and that was just from reading one of those little fuckers.

Weeks, months pass, and boy had Zoro been right. And annoyingly, so had Mihawk, on how reading would drastically improve his French. (If Robin could see him now…) The smutty books came and went, courtesy of Perona, and his reliance on his dictionary diminished. As the books’ premises plunged deeper and deeper into unspeakable domains, Zoro made the firm decision to stop asking questions. For the sake of his sanity. He never again wanted Perona to share her thoughts on the "thematic beauty of the monster fucker genre". He would never fully recover from the hour-long exposé she made him on ABO dynamics. Nor could he ever recover from the knowledge that all these novels came from Dracule Mihawk’s private library .

He now knew way too much about Mihawk's kinks and sexual tastes in men, and he wished to believe in a god so he could pray to never have to address this with the man within his life. Ever.

Which is why he's currently sweating bullets at Mihawk's inquiry into his latest reads, and why Perona is looking at him like the cat that ate the canary.

Eyes darting between his two guests, the warlord's lips tug at their corners in something resembling a smile.

"I take it you haven't found the sword fighting books yet then?"

The what.

Zoro promptly chokes on his saliva, coughing aggressively into his fist, his remaining eye bulging in surprise.

"Yes, did Perona not tell you? All the baking books in the French cuisine section actually hold sword forms and techniques. My boy, what have you been reading?"

—/

Sanji had maybe had just a few too many drinks tonight. His face feels warm, his limbs are nice and relaxed- if still a bit sore from the battle- and his tongue is a little loose. He knows it's one too many when it takes him a couple of sentences to realise he and Robin are speaking French together, and he's grateful for the unconscious switch when he faintly registers that Zoro is sat not very far, by himself, just across the campfire.

That was a close one.

Robin prods him for more information on his one-night stands, and who is he to deny a lady, really? He feels the words spill from his mouth like boiling water overflowing from a pot. He hears his voice confess a truth he's not let himself face for years and blames the wine.

"En vrai ce n'est pas qu'ils ne sont pas satisfaisants... c'est qu'ils ne sont jamais...assez. "

The cook swims in half-forgotten memories of one night stands he sought out on lonely evenings at random ports. Of fumbling hands and desperate kisses, of leaving before the sun has even risen, of cold sheets and empty beds in the morning... Sanji doesn't like the bitter taste his admittance leaves in his mouth, nor the way his chest feels just a little tighter. He knows what his love-starved self really wants, what he craves most of all... is the stupidly perfect man sitting across the fire. Like a moth to a flame, he yearns to know what it would feel like. To matter . To be seen in all his flawed, weak existence, and not be thrown aside like the mistake he is. To be loved , cared for, cherished tenderly by someone as earnest and devoted as he knows the swordsman to be. It's with a bleeding heart that he finally voices his love, answering Robin on what would be enough.

"Lui. "

His finger taps the ash off his cigarette before taking another long, long drag. Forlorn, he tears his gaze away from Zoro and nearly startles at the sincere warmth he sees dancing in the archeologist's eyes.

"Tu devrais lui dire ."

(You should tell him.)

Sanji laughs at that. "Mais bien sûr. J'vais me lever, me planter devant lui et tout lui avouer. "

(But of course. I'll get up, walk right up to him and confess everything.)

A beat. Robin impassively stares back at him. Sanji knows being a devil fruit eater isn't the only similarity between her and their captain. Their stubbornness is something he knows not to underestimate. He sighs and gulps the rest of his drink down. He must be out of his goddamn mind. And maybe a little drunker than he thought he was.

"Je ne sais pas te dire non, ma chère Robin." She smiles. "Mais saches que tu n'as pas précisé dans quelle langue je devais lui parler. "

(I don't know how to say no to you, my dear Robin. But please note that you didn't specify the language I should speak to him in.)

Before she can charm him into switching to a language the Marimo understands, the cook is already skirting around the fire with slightly wobbly steps. If he can just keep his tone right, tinged with a bit of anger, then he can probably pull this off, he thinks.

“You.” He points at Zoro accusingly.

The mosshead turns to face him, an unreadable expression on his face. “Me?”

Sanji doesn’t linger on it, all his mental capacity concentrating on making sure he uses French at the right moments.

“Yes, you fucking ange tombé du ciel , I have some words for you. Some mots doux if you will, so just sit tight and listen. You owe me after I saved your ass earlier.”

(Angel fallen from heaven; sweet words)

Surprised that Zoro doesn’t contradict him on the “saving his ass” part, he doesn’t stop to think and squashes the little voice inside him that questions why he’s going through with this.

Sanji fully planned on a heartfelt rant about all the idiot swordsman’s qualities- how unfair it is that he has it all. He really did. but he also feels a sudden shyness overtake him now that he’s standing in front of the idiot in question. To look Zoro in the eyes while saying such embarrassing, emotional shit won't do, and Sanji’s eyes make the mistake of looking down- only to be met with the tantalising sight of a broad, scarred chest and crossed arms that do nothing to hide the strong, corded muscle underneath. Oh, f uck me. His fake annoyance becomes partially real.

"Enfoiré! comment jsuis supposé te résister, hein? " He indignantly waves his cigarette around.

(You bastard! How am I supposed to resist you, huh?)

"Non mais vraiment- est ce que t’as la moindre idée de l’effet que t’as quand tu te balades torse nu sur le pont, tout dégoulinant de sueur? Ou de l’effet que les bruits que tu fait durant tes entraînements ont sur moi? J’ai qu’à fermer mes yeux et c’est- je…” he can feel his ears burning. Fuck it. Why not let it all out, he’ll feel better afterwards.

( No, but really- do you have any idea of the effect you have when you walk shirtless on deck, dripping with sweat? Or how the noises you make during your workouts affect me? All I have to do is close my eyes and it's- I...)

“Tu me rends fou. Après nos combats c’est si facile d’imaginer tes mains calleuses m’aggrippant possessivement, ta peau salée sur ma langue, ton torse haletant d’effort, ton regard enflammé -”

( You drive me crazy. After our fights it's so easy to imagine your calloused hands gripping me possessively, your salty skin on my tongue, your torso panting with effort, your fiery gaze -)

Still sat in front of Sanji, Zoro’s face is turning red and he’s shooting Sanji a heated look, no doubt irritated about being ranted at in French. Tough shit. Sanji wasn’t done.

“T’es si favorisé par les dieux, je suis même sûr que ta bite est énorme. Et puis si tu savais ce que je te laisserais me faire- ” he rolls his eyes and snorts, hoping the exasperation part of his rant is convincingly coming through.

(You're so favoured by the gods, I'm pretty sure you even have a huge dick. And if you knew what I'd let you do to me-)

Zoro’s mouth parts in shock, and a small anxious thought crosses Sanji’s mind- but there’s absolutely no way in hell the shitty mosshead knows French. He would sooner know his left from his right.

“Dis moi.” (Tell me.)

“Tell you what, stupid marimo-” it takes a couple of seconds for the cook to comprehend what just happened, and a strangled noise crawls its way out of his throat. Everything comes to a halt, his world crumbles down. Oh no. Oh no .

Zoro rises to his feet and steps into his space, a dangerously sinful grin across his face. At this point Sanji’s brain has fully stopped working, and it’s all he can do to gape stupidly back at him, face redder than it’s ever been.

“Dis moi. ” he repeats, voice low and so foreign sounding as it tries to replicate the right intonation of Sanji’s mother tongue. “Ou si tu préfères je peux te dire ce que je voudrais bien te faire, moi.”

( Tell me. Or if you prefer, I can tell you what I'd like to do to you.)

Warm blood bursts forth from Sanji’s nose, and his world turns black.

#zosan fic #zoro x sanji #zoro learns french story #zoro learns french #sanji x zoro #black leg sanji #roronoa zoro #writing the mihawk part was just so fun #as requested Zoro speaks french to sanji and oh boi #one piece zosan #please let me know if you liked it! im so self conscious of my french haha

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ekingston · 8 months

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| By Way of Wit | rated M | COMPLETE |

The jury summons arrives on a Friday.

“You have to get yourself disqualified,” Alex says.

Kara frowns. “What about my civic duty?”

Her sister ignores her. She’s on her phone, already finding her an out. “Your occupation should qualify you for an exemption,” she discovers. “It says here, if you’re full-time military, or a firefighter, or a cop—”

Kara holds the letter up for Alex to read. “They didn’t summon Supergirl,” she says. “They summoned Kara Danvers, freelance food critic and full-time reporter.”

In which no one escapes jury duty, not even superheroes and celebrity CEOs, and when Kara Danvers and Lena Luthor end up in sequestration, well—the defense submits that there's more than one type of civic service.

#oops?#supercorp fan fiction #let the record reflect my wife wanted me to title this SEQUESTER? I BARELY KNOW HER #i hope you all enjoy this like she did:#with great reluctance and grudging delight #per her review #“i love you. i hate this. this is my new favorite thing.”#fic by ekingston #BWOW

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steddieas-shegoes · 1 year

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It’s not that Steve didn’t want a tattoo.

He’d wanted one for years. Just something to piss off his parents the way they pissed him off constantly.

Asking when he’d find a girlfriend (he wouldn’t, he’s gay), when he’d find a better job (he liked his job as a guidance counselor), when he’d move out of the tiny apartment he shared with that girl who couldn’t give them grandchildren (Robin gagged at the mere thought of any of that).

But Robin promised she’d go with him when he made this appointment a month ago and she’d just cancelled at the last minute. Something about a work emergency.

She didn’t have a work emergency. She worked at a Starbucks.

He knew what she was doing. It’s what she always did.

“I just wanna get you out of your shell! People should see the Steve that I see!”

Robin did get a different version of Steve, one that didn’t feel like he had to hide his surprisingly bubbly personality. His students got a calm, kind counselor. But everyone else?

They’d be lucky to get a smile during a conversation.

He wasn’t, like, an asshole.

He just had asshole tendencies.

Robin called him her Oscar The Grouch.

He allowed it because deep down, he knew it was true.

And now he was even MORE grumpy because he had to get this tattoo alone. In a place he’d almost certainly be the outcast in his glasses and business casual attire. With people judging him for not already having tattoos and piercings at the age of 27.

Robin owed him.

When he walked into the shop, he was surprised to hear classic rock instead of heavy metal. The front counter was covered in pictures of bands Steve didn’t know, tattoos he would never get, and signs that had enough vulgar words to fill up the swear jar he kept in the apartment for shits and giggles.

Nervous was an understatement.

A head popped around the corner, bright smile lighting up the face of a man who looked like he belonged here.

“Be right there!”

Steve didn’t bother to say anything because as soon as he started to respond, the head was gone.

He frowned, but figured the guy might be with another client and he was pretty sure they had rules about touching things with their gloves on. At least, he hoped they did.

He stared down at the picture on his phone.

It was small, simple. Something he wouldn’t even have to cover up at work.

One of his students drew it for him last year when he’d missed some work because of the flu. He’d only missed two days, but because he so rarely missed, his regulars were pretty worried about him.

His regulars being three students who sat with him during their lunch period to avoid bullies.

It was a sun, with beautiful yellows and oranges combining into a near perfect circle, small lines randomly jutting out and fading into nothing.

It was beautiful art.

And he was getting it permanently etched onto his body.

He loved his students, what could he say?

The head popped back around the corner, interrupting his thoughts again.

“Sorry for the wait. I had a customer on the phone. How can I help ya?”

“Steve Harrington. Here for a 6:00 appointment?”

The guy beamed at him, nodding along.

“Perfect! You said you already knew what you wanted?”

Steve held up his phone to show this still nameless guy the picture.

“You want the colors like that?”

“If you can.”

“If I can, he says! Of course I can! This is really nice. Did you make this?”

Steve snorted, but he wasn’t that amused. This guy was like a ball of energy and Steve was already exhausted.

“No. One of my students did.”

“Oh, are you a teacher?”

“Guidance counselor.”

“That’s cool! So you, like, make sure the youths of today are on the right path? Keep them interested in the right things?”

Steve blinked at this man.

“I guess, yeah. So can we uh, get started…”

“Oh shit! I always forget to introduce myself to the newbies. Eddie.” He held out his hand towards Steve to shake. Steve stared down at it for a moment, knowing his face was doing that judgy thing Robin always warned him about, but not being able to stop it. “Not a handshake guy?”

Steve cleared his throat, finally reaching his hand up to shake Eddie’s.

The rings on Eddie’s fingers were cold against his own, his grip was strong but not the type of string that made Steve uncomfortable.

Eddie was smiling at him. He never stopped smiling, this guy.

It was kind of…cute. Steve would never admit it to anyone, but the way Eddie just seemed genuinely happy was really doing it for him.

That was annoying.

When he finally remember to let go, Eddie was already turning around to grab a piece of paper from the shelf behind him.

“I’m just gonna have you send that to this email,” he pointed to the contact info on the piece of paper he’d grabbed. “And I’ll get it printed on transfer paper so we can get started.”

Steve nodded and sent the picture as requested.

He ignored the shaking of his hands. It wasn’t a big deal. It’s just a tattoo. Most adults have them. Robin had four. Eddie here seemed to have hundreds.

Eddie must have noticed his visible anxiety. He felt Eddie’s hand on his arm, squeezing gently.

“First tattoo?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Nah. I’ve just done a lot of first tattoos.” Eddie pulled up the picture on his own phone while he spoke. “I promise it’ll be easier than you’re thinking.”

“I’m not worried about the pain.”

Eddie glanced up at him quickly, then back down at the phone in his hand.

“It’s just permanent, ya know?”

Eddie let out a laugh and held up both of his arms, fully covered in tattoos.

“I know. That’s what’s great. Nothing in life is permanent, but these are. Even when you’re long gone, these will still be on your body.”

Steve hadn’t thought about it like that.

Permanence was something he’d always struggled with. It’s why he was so standoffish according to the two therapists he’d tried talking to. His parents had never given him an idea of what someone staying around was like, his friendships all ended when he realized he wanted to be a better person than they were capable of being, and his only serious relationship ended when he was ready for marriage and she wasn’t.

He’d been through a lot of personal growth since then, most of it thanks to Robin and some experiences at the gay clubs she took him to, and now he felt better about who he was.

He just didn’t think anyone or anything would stick around.

Robin was proving she might, but only time would tell. Plenty of time for Steve to fuck it up.

“You can still back out, man. I won’t charge you the cancellation fee or anything.”

Oh, how nice. Eddie thought he was a wimp and wasn’t even gonna follow his own policy to let him back out.

That’s shameful. He was ashamed.

“Not backing out.”

He folded his arms in front of his chest, trying to tone down the glare he could feel on his own face.

Eddie threw his hands up as he waited for the printer to finish.

“Alright. Just letting you have an out.”

Eddie looked over the few copies he’d printed, all slightly different sizes, and then lined them up on the counter facing Steve.

“What size were you thinking? Where’s this going?”

Steve pointed to the middle one, barely an inch wide.

“I was thinking my wrist?”

Eddie smiled at him.

“Sounds good, sunshine.”

Oh. That was not good.

That little thing his stomach just did?

Nope. Not good at all.

Eddie walked around the counter and gestured for Steve to follow him around the corner.

Steve found himself in awe of the room he was walking into.

He’d never seen such variety in anything. Some of it resembled the front counter, but there was also a Bob Marley poster, a rainbow flag, a whole wall of funny bumper stickers, and graffiti along the ceiling.

It was certainly a lot for the eyes to take in.

Steve kind of loved it.

He even let out a smile.

He quickly hid it away again when he heard Eddie hit his hand against the chair.

“Got it all clean already for ya. Just take a seat and get comfy.” Eddie reached over grab some gloves from a shelf before he sat in front of Steve. “Gonna put this on you first. Make sure the placement is good. Then I’ll shave that area and get all my stuff ready to go. The tattoo itself probably won’t take more than an hour, and most of that will be shading these beautiful colors. Need anything before we get started? Water? Bathroom? Snack?”

Steve’s head was spinning.

Eddie’s energy was relentless, and he had a smile on his face the entire time.

Steve couldn’t help smiling back at him.

“I’m good. Thanks.”

Eddie nodded and started humming along to the song playing over the speakers.

He went through everything quickly, but still took his time explaining everything. Steve was kind of grateful he didn’t have to sit in silence; His brain wasn’t his friend when there was silence.

“Alright, sunshine. If you’re good, I’m good.”

Steve felt his face heat up, blush spreading from his cheeks to his neck.

“I’m good.”

And then he started.

It was sharp, the needles carving ink into his skin causing a new sensation up his entire arm. But it was also…good?

He’d expected it to be painful, maybe even go numb. He hadn’t expected the pain to feel like this.

He lost focus. Everything felt distant and blurry, but in a sleepy way, not in a pass out way. Steve felt himself smiling slightly, but didn’t have the energy to stop it.

He was watching Eddie work, but wasn’t really seeing anything beyond the way his fingers splayed his skin tight and the tattoo gun left ink behind.

His eyes closed at some point, but he wasn’t asleep, the faint buzz of the tattoo gun keeping him present enough to stay awake.

“Hey, sunshine. Doing alright?”

“Hm?”

He tried to focus in on Eddie’s face. Eddie was very close. He was holding his wrist.

Steve was still here.

“Need a break?”

“No. I’m good.”

Eddie chuckled. “I’d say so.”

He continued, and Steve let his mind wander again. It was nice to drift. He’d never felt this relaxed before, not even during the massage Robin got him for his birthday last year.

“Alright, sunshine. You’re done.”

Steve looked down at the tattoo now covering his wrist.

It was beautiful, even better than the picture.

He started to cry.

If he wasn’t so far gone, he’d probably be embarrassed or angry about it, but surely other people had cried after a tattoo before. Maybe Eddie would just ignore it.

“Oh, sweetheart. Do you not like it?”

“No. I love it.” Steve took a shaky breath, then another. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Eddie was rubbing his back and smiling sadly down at him.

“I’m glad you love it. I just have to wrap it up and go over some care instructions, okay?”

“Okay.”

Steve was never this vulnerable, not even with Robin. He was pretty sure she’d only actually seen him cry once when a student moved away.

His whole thing was that he didn’t show emotions. His job required it to an extent, though he was always caring to his students, giving them smiles when they came in to make them feel welcome.

But here he was smiling and crying to a stranger over a tattoo.

“Sunshine?”

“Yeah?”

“Got you some water. I need you to look at me while I go over the instructions okay?”

“Okay.”

He felt himself coming back down to earth as he looked at Eddie, a soft smile making Steve focus in on his mouth.

“That’s good. Keep this wrapped for four hours at least and longer if you’ll be outside. When you take it off, make sure you wash it with antibacterial soap gently and then use moisturizing lotion, unscented is best. If you need some, I can give you some. Make sure to keep it moisturized over the next week. It’ll peel a little, that’s normal, but if you see anything that’s a lot of color falling out or something, come see me and I can fix it. No long exposure to direct sunlight for at least 4 weeks, and use sunscreen on it if you think you will be.” He took a breath and smirked. “Got it?”

“Um.”

He handed over a paper with a laugh.

“It’s all right here. I just needed you to come back down from space. Drink your water and relax for a minute. I’ll go get the card reader.”

Steve did as he was told, enjoying the way the ice cold water helped him focus back in on his surroundings.

With the focus came the grumpiness. He was crashing from his adrenaline high, and his first instinct was to pout.

He didn’t think he was visibly doing so until he heard Eddie snort from a few feet away.

“Welcome back. Sorry to burst your bubble. If I didn’t have another client in 20 minutes, I’d probably have let you stay there for a bit. Seems like you needed it.”

“I. What do you mean? I was just zoned out.”

Eddie froze where he was typing something into his phone.

“Have you never…? Oh. Jesus Christ. Okay. Well. I don’t.” He looked genuinely concerned about what to do. “Okay. I don’t feel comfortable letting you be alone yet. Do you have someone you live with or who can hang out for a bit?”

“My roommate had a work emergency or she’d be here.”

Steve’s arms were crossed again, but the pull of the wrap around his wrist reminded him of the dull ache he was still experiencing. It made him shiver, but he couldn’t explain why.

“Okay. Can you stick around for a bit? I’ve got an office with a couch in the back.”

“Are you gonna tell me why?”

“Ever heard of sub space?”

“Like…the kinky thing?”

Eddie facepalmed.

“Yeah. Like the kinky thing.”

“I mean, I’ve heard of it. Why?”

“You just spent the last hour in it.”

Steve was usually pretty good at keeping a pretty stoic face, but his jaw dropped.

“No I didn’t.”

“Sunshine, you were gone. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone that deep from a tattoo before.”

“If this is just a way to get me alone in your office or something…”

“Steve. I know you don’t know me, but I would never do that. If I wanted to get you alone, I’d just ask you.”

“I’m sure I’d say no.”

“Exactly. So you’ll stay so I can keep an eye on you?”

Steve shrugged. He didn’t have anything else to do and Robin wouldn’t be home for hours.

“I guess.”

Eddie’s eyes were practically glittering.

“Good. Go lay down, sunshine. I’ll bring you more water in a minute.”

So despite Steve having no idea what just happened, and barely any idea who Eddie even was beyond a talented tattoo artist, he made his way to the office and curled up on the couch.

Pout firmly in place because he was still Steve, after all.

Chapter 2 / Chapter 3

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #ao3fic #tumblr drabbles #headcanon #my fic #tattoo artist eddie munson #first time tattoo Steve Harrington #grumpy Steve Harrington #sunshine Eddie Munson #grumpy sunshine trope #see how I made Eddie sunshine but his nickname for Steve is sunshine #see what I did there #if you want this to be like a whole THING let me know #because I kind of want it to be #accidental subspace Steve Harrington

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captain-hen · 29 days

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What do you think are the fandom ~~classic buddie fics?

i think this is a very subjective opinion, but i can tell you which fics i really love and constantly re-read—and which, in my opinion, should be read by everyone in the fandom :)

Leave the Light On (I'll Be Coming Home) by @hmslusitania Rated M | 44k | Completed Summary: An accident on a call leaves Buck with custody of Chris after Eddie is... missing presumed. While they navigate their new family circumstances—and fight to stay together, despite Eddie's parents' best efforts—a John Doe wakes up in a coma ward with no memory of his own life beyond the knowledge he has a son named Christopher and, somehow, he needs to get home.

a bleeding sun on a silver screen by rarakiplin Rated M | 130k | Completed Summary: One day, Buck will tell an interviewer that he would be happy to make movies with Eddie Diaz until the day he dies. But first, years before that, he sees Eddie for the first time on the set of Chimney’s fifth movie. (or, the actors au)

i want your midnights by @littlespoonevan Rated T | 36k | Completed Summary: In which Eddie decides to rent out his spare room to help with mortgage repayments right around the time Buck decides to move out of Abby's place after some not so gentle prodding from Maddie. It's a coincidence. Or serendipity. Or maybe just really good timing.

maybe we'll make something by @buckactuallys Rated E | 76k | Completed Summary: On a road trip with Christopher, Buck and Eddie finally work through their various traumas, and Eddie faces his parents again.

what a heart can do by @bvckandeddie Rated T | 86k | Completed Summary: In which Buck becomes the guardian of the daughter he never knew he had. Together, they discover what happiness truly means to them.

Hot Ghost Problems by ebjameston Rated T | 40k | Completed Summary: Eddie is the newest firefighter at the 118. Buck is the ghost haunting the 118. Unfortunately for both of them, Eddie's also a witch and needs to put Buck's spirit to rest, because that's what witches do. Turns out, Buck's spirit? Super not interested in being put to rest. Very interested, however, in flirting with Firefighter Diaz, who is just trying to survive his candidate year. (Also turns out, Buck? Super not dead.)

Both Blade and Branch by @cal-daisies-and-briars Rated M | 62k | Completed Summary: The chances of being struck by lightning twice are incredibly minute, but Buck still manages to pull it off. During a double date with Marisol and Natalia, nonetheless. Eddie manages to resuscitate him, but as Buck recovers from yet another trauma, Eddie can’t help but notice there’s something very different about him. He’s not quite sure what version of Buck he got back.

we're not in love (but the sex is good) by elless Rated E | 15k | Completed Summary: Eddie is new to LA. Feeling lonely, he goes to a bar for a drink and meets a beautiful stranger that kisses like a dream. What starts as a one night stand quickly moves to frequent no strings sex. When circumstances lead to them spending time together out of bed, Eddie realizes he’s attached to Buck in a way he never planned for.

for all the haunts and homes of men by euadnes Rated M | 113k | Work in Progress Summary: The year by the old calendar is 2025. Home is gone. Home is a failed rescue mission and an echo of a memory. Home is a lost boy living in a wooden house by the sea. But first, there was a promise. Christopher, when it's safe, I'll take you back to your father. Buck had all but given up on keeping it after the world had died and everyone in it. But just as some oaths refuse to be forgotten, so the same can be said about the endurance of love.

things we shouldn't do by Ingu Rated T | 21k | Completed Summary: The one where Buck and Eddie accidentally get set up on a blind date with each other, and everything snowballs from there.

#i know there's probably a ton i'm missing but these are some really good ones to start with!#neethu answers #anon #fic rec #i read for all the haunts and homes of men recently and let me tell you. this fic. this goddamn fic. it made me cry like a baby.

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coolnonsenseworld · 8 months

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(to know more about the story and the calendar on pre-order check out previous posts! LESS THAN 2 WEEKS LEFT)

In September they don't feel like going anywhere or doing any bucket lists - no getting out of the comfort zone this time around. All they need is a little comfort of one another - they take breaks for a movie night when they wouldn't, buy extra cakes they haven't tried previously, go on date-walks and take bubble baths with new scents.

Enjoying simple things in life and appreciating your own presence here feels like it should be a basic part of any bucket list.

How is your September going? Do you have any plans or achievements this month?

#klance #voltron #voltron legendary defender #ive got 32 k words for HEX and i reached the first temple 😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔#i swear this fics is making me feel like i am actually a nerd #people will hate me when they discover one of the chapters is reading a book #but you gotta know the statistics of performing sepulchral transplantology just for Pidge #dont let me start talking about hex i never shut up no cap #have an awesome day and tell me what's your happy thiny in September is or going to be!!!

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secretlythatsme · 2 months

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ALSO for your angst dpxdc consideration: danny would absolutely still be considered a meta. the term "meta" is used in a very vague, umbrella way where basically anyone who isn't a normal human is a meta. so even without the proper meta gene, danny would still be considered a meta by basically everyone (especially bruce). canonically speaking, danny isn't just a normal booooo kinda ghost - he also has some insane powers (like his ghost wail!) so he'd be considered a person with superpowers and therefore a meta.

so when you're writing dpxdc fics, please consider this! danny would be a meta in the dcu! kick that kid out of gotham!!!!

#im sorry i know tensions are high rn with the whole 'canon vs fanon' shit however #it does make me giggle a little whenever i see fics that are like 'danny isnt really a meta so he has nothing to worry about'#oh yes he does #i think a fic where danny himself thinks he's safe cause he's not a meta but Actually He's Wrong has great potential for angst And comedy #but any fic thats like 'oh bat.man wont consider him a meta once he learns danny is a ghost!'#nahnahnah im not letting y'all pull that actually #you havent considered the angst potential properly cmon guys #guys.. guys please.... guys if you learn more about dc you have more potential for angst guys guys are you liste-#ajdhgjlhdga #people should learn about the dc canon because fanon sucks!!! <broke #people should learn about the dc canon because it gives us more chances to wring danny like a towel <bespoke #aldhgl #dcxdp #dpxdc

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lot-of-nothing · 1 month

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Entwined (Ch. 1)

Melissa Schemmenti x Reader

Since your youth, the relationship between Melissa and you has been complicated. In all of your years knowing her, she just can't admit that she isn't as straight as she thinks.

Warnings: Toxic Melissa, smut, and very veiled internalized homophobia

Authors Note: If ya like it, let me know and I'll write more.

On and off.

That’s how you would describe your relationship with Melissa to your closest friends. They would inevitably roll their eyes and make a face, annoyed with how Melissa had you wrapped around her finger.

It started in high school. She would start dating a new guy, he would leave her unsatisfied in more ways than one, and then she would find those missing pieces of her relationship in you.

You were best friends after all…. and best friends would do anything for each other, right?

The first night you spent together was always vivid in your memories. Her green eyes flashing with mischief before she took your hand and pulled it to her thigh. Mel told you how badly she was aching, how it was almost painful. That she needed her best friend to help resolve what her boyfriend couldn’t.

She knew about your sexual orientation. She knew how hard it was for you to date. When you hesitated, Mel said it was like practicing for when you had a girlfriend. Only if she knew how beautiful you found her to be… that she was only making things harder for you.

Young and naive, you gladly accepted her offer - desire flooding your senses as soon as she drew your hands to her body. She guided you through every motion and step, telling you exactly what she liked. Like a sponge, you soaked up every word and memorized every fraction of her body. Never wanting to forget a thing.

Little did you know the knowledge would come in handy again… and again… and again.

—

“I should probably get going.” Mel breathed as she pushed herself into an upright position. You had been bathing in the afterglow of your sexual dalliance when you must have looked at her too yearningly. She didn’t want you getting too attached.

“I wouldn’t mind if you stayed. It’s no big deal.” You tried to shrug off her wanting to leave so soon. It was best if you played it cool rather than let her know how much you really wanted her after all these years.

It was clear she didn’t give much thought to your statement. Slipping out from under your sheets, Melissa snatched up her underwear and bra from the floor. She was always in such a rush after you were finished, “I don’t want the neighbors gettin’ the wrong idea.”

That's what she had always told you - ‘I’m not gay.’

For years, you always had a biting remark in return.

‘Yeah. It’s not like you just spent a half hour between my legs or anything.’

“What? Worried they might think you’re gay?” Your words were twinged with venom. Now, rather than wait for her to make the excuse, you threw it back in her face. It always irked you that she could say such a thing to you given all you had experienced with one another.

“A woman can enjoy the company of women and not be gay.”

You scoffed, unable to contain yourself, “You’re delusional.”

Melissa’s lip curled and her brow furrowed. She always hated when you would get pissy with her, so she decided to snap back at you as she clipped her bra in the back, “I don’t need your shit, okay? I came here for a good time after my shitty date.”

You faked a smile and let the sarcasm drip from your tongue. “Glad to help.”

—

You knew the relationship wasn’t healthy, but this is how it always went.

She would call. She would come over. You would fuck. She would want to leave right after. You would get pissed. Then you wouldn’t speak until she wanted back in your bed.

—

You gathered saliva in your mouth and then pushed your tongue between her folds, drenching Melissa’s sweet cunt in your spit.

After the last sexual dalliance, you told yourself you wouldn’t end up on your knees for her again. But 45 minutes ago you received a partial nude from the redhead, and she had you reeled back in once more. It was a scandalous picture of her standing in front of her bedroom mirror with her hand between her legs. The caption she sent with the photo was ‘Missing you.’

While it was infuriating she could send a picture at random like that, you were in your car minutes later ready to drive over to her house.

Your hands gripped behind her knees, keeping a gentle pressure to make sure she was spread wide for you. Her hands were buried in your hair to prevent you from lifting your face away from her swollen heat. But in all honesty, you weren’t planning on going anywhere until she came all over your tongue.

“Oh, fuck!” Mel whined, pushing her hips up to grind against your face. Her enjoyment made you smile, and sadly, a small ounce of hope lingered in the back of your mind that maybe you could fuck her good enough that she would want to be with you.

“Yesyesyesyes… God, you are incredible.” Melissa hissed out, chasing her orgasm through rough bucks of her hips.

You pulled back, fighting against the grip for her hands. You provided her with a singular lick to her cunt and then paused, teasing her, “You want to come?”

“Yes~”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, please.”

“Good girl…” You hummed, pulling away entirely to retrieve the strap.

—

She had barely recovered from taking a pseudo-rage filled fucking when she crawled from bed. Her legs wobbled underneath herself as she wrapped herself in a robe, trying to make it clear a third round wouldn’t be an option. “I guess you better be goin’.”

“Sounds good.” You took the hint with grace, choosing to let her statement roll off your back rather than stewing on it. You slipped from the bed, unclasped Melissa’s strap (that she kept around just for you), and tossed the sex toy on the bed. You then proceeded to get ready in silence, not offering anything to Melissa that might display your displeasure.

The redhead was slowly unnerved by your silence as you zipped up your trousers and pulled your shirt over your head. She stared at her nail beds, trying to start casual conversation, “Gary proposed.”

You glanced up at her quickly, brow furrowed in angry questioning. While you were not proud of how easily Mel could reel you in, you wouldn’t have come if she was still in a relationship let alone engaged.

Melissa noticed your incredulous look and finished explaining, “I said no.”

You breathed out a scoff as you tucked your phone in your back pocket and scooped up your sweater off the floor. “That sounds about right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Melissa was clearly unhappy with your tone, but you refused to glance her way - slightly enraging her further.

Swiping your wallet and car keys from the bedside table you finally glanced over to where Mel sat on the edge of the bed. It was difficult to tell if she was more angry or embarrassed by your criticism, “I’ve learned the hard way, Mel. You’re hardly one to be tied down by something as trivial as love.”

Melissa was left speechless by your blatant honesty, and she could only stare as you gave her a curt nod, “I’ll see you around.”

—

She wasn’t gone for a half hour when you received a text from her - ‘Again tomorrow night? ;)’

It immediately forced you to roll your eyes. How you loved and hated that she was like this. One moment she would be so oppositional to any form of attachment, and then the moment someone ‘played hard to get’ with her, she would be fiending for their attention.

What was worse is that you were no better than her. You replied almost automatically - ‘I am off at 4. Come over whenever.’

Link to Chapter 2

#melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti x reader #lisa ann walter #abbott elementary #toxic relationship #if you like the fic then let me know. it was fun to write :)

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swiggity-swexual-i-am-asexual · 2 months

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DPxDC Prompt

Thinking back on it, Danny probably should have been more wary of being given the title ‘Ender Of Timelines’.

#dpxdc #dp x dc #danny phantom #dc x dp #dcxdp #I guess any crossover but it’s the one I was thinking of at the time #probably a summon fic?#they’re like Oh Fuck Who Have These Cultists Brought In?!?!#panic. mayhem. chaos.#meanwhile Danny is like. you put ONE alternate universe version of yourself into your own CLONE and SUDDENLY it’s a PROBLEM #he steadfast ignores the other times he fucked with time and then refucked with it to fix it #arguably it’s a title that should go to Dark Danny who I’m calling Dante because #chefs kiss ITS GREAT #maybe it applies to both so it’s like. a coin toss who shows up #Dante is like. ugh. community service says I CANT. let me give you the most bored speech on the planet about loving the earth and making…#the most of your timeline.#you know. up until he actually NEEDS to go light some fires. which he’s maybe a bit too quick to jump in on as soon as he can #meanwhile Danny is like. I can barely pass geometry and now I gotta help solve THIS problem TOO?!#they’re both good at it. just. different approaches #the timeline is capital f FUCKED if both show up tho #the mythos… you could have so much fun with it lol

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blackbatcass · 3 months

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the thing about dickroy is it’s at this delicious little cross section where roy harper loves dick grayson so much his chest is going to explode one of these days AND ALSO is physically incapable of taking any of dick’s bullshit.

#dick grayson #roy harper #dickroy #like. do you get it.#he loves dick so much he is also CONSTANTLY CALLING DICK OUT #like roy is not a nightwing apologist like a lot of other people are. he loves that man he also knows he’s stupid as fuck #not actually dick is very smart but you know what i mean. dick fucks up and roy will not let him get away with it #roy loves dick he also HOLDS HIM THE FUCK ACCOUNTABLE #like. it’s love without the rose tinted glasses you know??#roy is NOT here for dick being avoidant or stubborn. he will call that shit as he sees it.#someone tell me to stop writing dickroy fic and do my homework🤦‍♀️

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dykealloy · 3 months

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it's a good episode.

#big mom fight is just a thinly veiled vessel for kidlaw propaganda #1066 #every time i read kidlaw fics that were posted like 2019 or prior im like god. they must have loved this. i really hope they loved this.#must be a rare breed but please let me know if you wrote kidlaw all the way back in sabaody archipelago days #and whether or not you enjoyed wano arc or not. it will make my day #kidlaw #one piece #op #trafalgar law #eustass kidd #eustass kid #wano arc

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spamgyu · 2 months

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Angel // Minghao

"Always and angel. Never a God"

DESCRIPTION: She knew she never fully had him – despite his countless reassurance that she did. She wasn't stupid, she knew that she had big shoes to fill and though his words said one thing, the ghost of his past says otherwise. GENRE: Angst

There was a ghost of her that haunted every part of your relationship.

He said it wasn't so but you felt it.

She had been long gone for years but you can feel her presence with every time he touched you, with every word he said, with the cologne he chose to wear, and the songs he listened to.

It was all her.

The girl that once occupied his heart before you did.

He never once uttered her name, not even during the worst of your fights. He never once held her over your head.

But he didn't need to.

He kept her around – his favorite jacket he wore during the cold winter months were from her. The chain that dangled above your face during the nights he made you his, she purchased.

He doesn't think you know, but he underestimated a your power to sleuth – finding all information about her down to what high school she graduated.

But it wasn't just him.

His friends kept in contact with her - her name slipping from their lips every now and then when we were in group settings. You knew they didn't intend to utter it, you can see the regret in their eyes as they pause in the middle of their sentences.

And every single time, you pretended not to hear it.

You pretend to not be fazed by the sinking feeling in my stomach; the voice in your head screaming at you.

"You'll never measure up to her."

Everyone had their own demons. Yours just so happened to be your boyfriend's ex-girlfriend.

"Angel," Minghao's voice pulled you out of your thoughts, turning to face him. "You okay? You're out in space over there."

You pulled your lips into a tight smile, giving him a soft nod. "Just– thinking."

"About?"

Her.

"Nothing." You shook your head, scooting into his open arms – allowing him to pull you against his chest.

"Is it about what Jun said?"

What Jun said.

The reason why you allowed your thoughts to consume you.

During dinner, your boyfriend's best friend had accidentally mentioned her as he gushed over the meal in front of them. He spoke of how Kaia was the one that showed them the Italian restaurant – the one that Minghao had claimed to be his favorite when he had first brought you around.

You thought it was the one final place that she didn't haunt.

Boy, were you oh so wrong.

For the remainder of the night, you couldn't help but think of the first time Minghao had ordered for you when he had taken you to the establishment – not bothering to glance at the menu.

He knew the meals by heart.

Was the pasta that you liked so much once hers?

"It's nothing, Hao." You shook your head, not wanting to further dig deep into the large wound.

"He didn't mean it."

"They never do."

"What's that supposed to mean?" His body shifted from under you, causing you to sit up and face him again.

"I– She'll always be around, it's okay." You shook your head. It was far too late in the night to start an argument, and you weren't in the mood to sleep without the warmth of his arms.

"We– you know she and I ended in good terms. I– I can't really tell them to not hang out with her."

He was right and that's what hurt the most.

Minghao did his part, he steered clear from her. Not once did he join his friends when they hung out with her, nor did he stay in contact with her.

Out of respect of you.

But despite all his efforts, and his reassurances – she still remained. Almost as if she had never left.

"I know." You nodded. "I– it's just my head."

"It's you that I chose to be with. It's you that I come home to."

Minghao was right yet again, but why did it still feel like it wasn't so.

Because if he did let go of her, pieces of her wouldn't remain in your shared apartment. He wouldn't smell like the scent she had picked out for him all those years ago.

He wouldn't take you to the places they once claimed to be theirs.

He would have started a brand new slate.

"Angel, I need you to know that I love you." Minghao spoke slowly, taking your hands in his.

You looked down at the cold metal that made contact with your skin – the Chrome Hearts ring she had gifted him their first year together.

Yet another reminder of her as he professed his so called love for you.

You had him, but never all of him. You were his angel, but never his god.

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